Father and Son
by Eleutheria Wolf
Summary: Macbeth died at the hands of his enemy, his lady wife snuffed out by her own hand. The Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, the tyrant king, was destroyed. His blood fed the sword of his bane. Macbeth had paid for his crime. But that didn't bring his family back.


There are not many men who can say, with all satisfaction and humbleness, that they have accomplished all that they desire to in life, and are now content for the rest of their days. Very few can claim that great feat, and even of them, many would be lying if they said as such. It requires a great effort, a monumental task, to bring about the kind of peace of mind required for that state of acceptance, of final, peaceful victory. The thought is so great, few dare even attempt.

Macduff accepted the thought with a hum of rare pleasure, and of bittersweet sorrow. It had required many sacrifices, the redemption of Scotland. For a moment he allowed himself a deep regret, lingering over the face of his beautiful wife, and their children, his proud, strong son, his little girls. All dead by the hand and order of the tyrant and traitor. There was a flash of the old hate in that thought. But then regret and hate alike soothed, until they were as scars, a memory of torment. Macbeth, his great enemy, was dead by his own hand. His family was dead, yes, but their memories stayed with him, and he could still treasure those. They had been avenged. Peace could be had. The past had taken care of itself. The future required attention.

The sway of his stallion and the clopping of hooves brought him back to the waking world, out of the realm of reminiscence. Around him, his men talked quietly among themselves, keeping wary eyes on the world around. Not three hours ago, they had been laughing and bantering among themselves without a care, but superstition had silenced them and made them watchful. Macduff felt again with a pang of grim distaste the reason he had been pulled into thoughts of past triumphs and regrets.

In the weeks after King Malcolm's victory, there had been a great deal of work to do. The land was battered, the people more so. Two successive civil wars had brought the country to its knees. There were the nobles to attend to, the loyalty reaffirmed of those who had stayed with Macbeth, or the loyalty rewarded of those, like Macduff, who had fought for the true king of Scotland. There were lands to be reapportioned, traitors to behead, successors to bestow for those who had fallen or executed, and more besides. It had taken almost six months to even reach a state where there was time for a coronation. And there was still much left undone.

That was part of the reason that it had taken almost two years since Malcolm's victory to finally attend to the matter of Macbeth's estates. The other was superstition and lingering hate for the tyrant, that lead the king and all around to neglect those lands, out of petty maliciousness. For all that time, the fifes of Cawdor and Glamis had gone without a thane. What remained of Macbeth's forces, broken and defeated, had been swept out of the area long ago, but since then, mere stewards had watched over the lands once belonging to the traitor. Ruined by their association with Macbeth, and torn apart by the war, neglect, and a series of famines, those fifes were now among the poorest and most broken of all Scotland. Looking around himself at the stunted, barren crop fields, the ramshackle villages they passed on their way to Castle Glamis, the hollow-eyed, haunted people, Macduff pitied which ever young noble received these lands. They were a bitter, tainted place.

When finally Malcolm had been forced to attend to the Forgotten Fifes, as now the nobles called them, his first action had been to summon Macduff to a private meeting.

"My dear friend," the young king had said, a hand on Macduff's shoulder in a paltry sort of comfort, "Were there anyone else, I would not make you suffer this. I know what the men say about those lands, that they are as accursed as the man who once ruled them. 'Twas my own fault that it left it so long. But I know that in all things, I can trust you, and I trust no one else to deal fairly."

Macduff had nodded solemly, and set off at once, though he wished dearly that the king had picked another. That day of the battle, Macduff had sworn to himself that he would move on with his life, that the memory of Macbeth need not rule all that he was. He did not fancy the job of assessing the state of his enemy's broken lands, and being thus closer to him again, more than any other. But above all, Macduff was loyal to Scotland, and if no one else would do this, he would, for Scotland and the king.

That did not stop something within him from turning hard and angry when Castle Glamis came into view. Memories of his last night there, the night that the old king was murdered by a traitor's hand and his world had begun to crumble, stuck in him like bitter knives.

It was with those in mind, those sharp-edged remembrances, that he rode into the town surrounding the gates of Castle Glamis, though the term hovel or ruin might have been more correct. The land itself, and all in it, was dull and lifeless, colored all in shades of muddy grey. The huts of the village, little more than broken shacks of falling stone walls and half-thatched roofs, clustered around the foot of the castle like beggars around the feet of a rich man. The castle itself, on second glance, was also a little worn-looking. The taller towers had already begun to crumble, and Macduff was a little surprised at the damage that two years had wrought, until he remembered that many troubles that Glamis had seen since Macbeth's death. Earthquakes, fierce storms, droughts, all has conspired to rip down as much of the old tyrant's fortress as they could. At the king's court, they had whispered of divine vengeance, and stayed as far away from the land of Glamis as they could.

The villagers themselves were little better than their village. They were wrapped in dull grey and brown rags, spattered with the mud that flew up from the churned ground under foot, and as they watched the gleaming patrol of horsemen in well-buffed armor ride down the muddy stretch that was the main road, their eyes were dull with wariness. There was little sound and less activity, but what little of it there was halted to watch the strangers pass. Macduff knew by the shifting sounds behind him that his men were already getting nervous. Soon, the only sounds were those of the jingle of the saddles, the wet plopping of the horses' hooves in the mud, and distant sounds of coughing and crying infants. Macduff could not suppress a shiver himself. This was a broken land. But the death-like pallor of the world was broken by shouts from up ahead, by the castle gates, and Macduff was glad to ride on quickly. Anything but this half-dead place.

As the column reached the castle gates, they became aware of a crowd that had gathered in the open, muddy field just before the gates, murmuring to themselves as they watched whatever spectacle that was making the center of the crowd churn in a frenzy. Angry shouts could be heard, as well as the frustrated screech of a woman and the pathetic mewls of something or someone in pain. The inner circle of the crowd did not bother to turn to see the imposing figure of Macduff on his tall stallion and the soldiers all behind him, but as he started forward, the crowd quickly parted before him, and the seething murmurs of the crowd fell silent. Those in the center, the cause of the fuss, remained loud. Macduff was loath to play master and judge to these people, but as the king's liaison, it was what was expected. It was his duty.

At last Macduff's steed emerged into the center of the crowd, and the thane of Fife came face to face with the trouble. The shouting that he had first heard was that of a young man, no more than twenty. The boy was as skinny as the rest of his people, but he was broad-shouldered and handsome, or he would have been, if his face had not been twisted in an ugly snarl. An old crone, bent and grey, stood off to the side screeching vile oaths at him, clearly angry, those it seemed she dare not interfere. On the ground, curled in a tight little heap at the feet of the young man, a pile of filthy rags shivered and shook. As Macduff grew closer, he was startled to see that it was a young child, the age and gender hidden by the filth that spattered. From the position, it seemed as though the young man had been kicking the child, but had stopped to yell back at the old woman. As Macduff approached, the young man grew silent, while the woman continued to hurl profanity at an alarming rate and inventiveness.

"Stop," Macduff ordered in his most commanding tone, with just the slightest edge of threat. The crone snapped one last insult at the young man, but fell silent, though by the angry look on her ancient, wrinkled face, she had yet more to say. Macduff gave each of the combatants a hard stare, then pointed indiscriminately into the crowd. "You," he commanded, "tell me what had happened here."

The nervous looking man he had selected stepped forward and cringed. "Begin yer pardon, yer lordship, but I don't-" The old woman interrupted with a screech.

"I'll tell yer what 'appened! This young-" and here she went into a number of foul names, "-decided he'd rather kick at hapless beggars not much better'n us than _work_ fer once_!_" The young man's face flushed in anger at this, and he jabbed a vicious finger at the huddle of rags that was slowly uncurling on the ground.

"We are a dozens times better 'n than that-" and here the young man hurled out a few oaths of his own. "I won't be compared with the likes of that!"

"And what exactly," Macduff interrupted, rubbing his temples in frustration, anger growing within him, "is that? A child? A beggar? A helpless creature?" Macduff was disgusted by this, all of this, this travesty of morals. What justified kicking the pathetic little thing that was now hunched on the ground, clutching what looked to be a badly broken arm to its skinny chest? It looked barely human; what could inspire such hate? The young man whirled to face him, not bothering to moderate his voice.

"That thing's ain't a child, it's a demon! That thing's the reason we're all starving and dying like this!" He shouted, still pointing down accusingly at the creature, who cringed and began trying to inch away towards the gates, making pathetic, animalistic sounds as it did so, like a beaten dog. Against his will, Macduff felt a twinge of both disgust and pity. "As long as we let that thing live, we're gonna keep being like this! Broken! Half-dead afore we're even born! Cursed!"

"And how, exactly," Macduff snapped, his temper worn thin, "did that thing cause all this? What is its crime?"

"He's the son of Macbeth!" The village man snarled. The village square was silent, but for the pained mewling of the boy on the ground.

Macduff's world tore in two.

A son? Macbeth... a son? Macduff could hardly comprehend it. A son, one that yet lived? And living here, just below Castle Glamis, a beggar on the fringes of the village. Clearly, the villagers blamed the boy for their troubles, for the despair brought down on them by Macbeth. What else could they do? Who else had they to blame, for Macbeth himself and his sordid queen, the true culprits, were both dead. Even the crone obviously held no love for the pathetic creature, but merely hated the man attacking it. Macduff heard himself in the distance giving orders for the crowd to disperse, for his men to send them back to their lives. He saw, somewhat, the mutinous look on the young man's face as he aimed one last kick at the boy on the ground, who cringed away and let out a begging, canine-like whine. The crone snarled at that, and the two were herded away by the soldiers, still bickering bitterly. Macduff cared for none of it. All his mind was occupied by the thought. Macbeth had a son. Macbeth has a son. And he yet lives.

Then he took a closer look at the child, and realized that the response to that was 'Not for long.' The beggar child was levering himself up using the wall of the castle, clearly too weak to pull himself into a standing position of his own power. The village youth's kicks had clearly done a great deal of damage, considering the way the boy moved slowly, as though he feared igniting the pain once more. Considering the squeaks and yips he made, he was not entirely successful. Combining that with the poverty and famine that wracked the land, and the boy's own status as a beggar, and Macduff was not at all surprised to see that beneath the scraps of cloth that the boy was clothed in, ribs stuck out in skeletal relief, highlighted by bruises both old and new. It seemed that all the village took vicious pleasure in sending a kick or two at the son of Macbeth. Macduff felt both a sinking in his heart and a strange, hateful relief at the realization that at this rate, the boy, fragile and now injured, would not survive the winter. Part of him rejoiced in the thought that at last, the line of Macbeth would know the same pain as he, that of all those you love and hold dear dying painful deaths. But part of him...

Part of him looked at the pain-dulled eyes of the child that was slumped upright against the grey stone walls, shivering with pain and cold, panting with the effort of merely standing, one arm clutched to his side, ribs jutting, covered in filth... and saw a memory, that of a smiling boy, happy and bright. A memory of his son.

He fought the urge to heave.

"Sir?" The soldier's voice was a welcome distraction. Macduff forced himself to focus on the wary face of the foot solider, a new recruit not much older than the village youth who had attacked the boy not ten minutes ago. "The villagers have been dispersed. What do you want us to do with..." the solider trailed off, chancing a glance back at the beggar child who still leaned against the grey walls. The soldier shuddered in superstitious fear. Macduff wanted to join him. He had no doubt that if he ordered, the men would gladly dispatch the boy, though not with the same spirit of violent revenge that would have possessed the villagers, had they been allowed to do it themselves. The soldiers would make it quick. Easy. Painless.

As painless as his own son's death had been.

Macduff thought.

Two years ago, when the pain of his family's death was still fresh and burning in his mind, he would not have hesitated in the slightest. The boy would have died, an eye for an eye, a son for a son. He would have abandoned the child to the mob, would have craved revenge as fervently as they did. He had still been a grieving, deranged creature then, as broken as any of the people here.

One year ago, he would have dispatched the child himself, making it quick and painless, but still taking a bitter pleasure in the death of the son of Macbeth. His revenge would have been tainted by the knowledge that nothing would bring his family back to him, but at least Macbeth's line was finished by his hand.

Six months ago, he would have allowed his soldiers to do it for him, taking only the slightest pleasure, but still feeling only a slightly guilty pang in the moment before he ordered it done. He disliked killing a child, but then, it would have been Macbeth's child, and not even youth excused that.

One hour ago, he would have ignored the child, and ridden on into the castle, doing nothing. It was not his place. Let God decide the boy's fate. He had no wish to take matters into his own hands.

One minute ago, he saw his own son in the boy's eyes.

He felt the weariness of old grudges weighing down on him, the oiliness of old blood on his hands. So much death had been wrought these past years. So many children, so many sons had died. No matter what he felt, he could not bring himself to abandon a child to an uncaring fate. It mattered not who the child's father was, not in the moment when that child looked up and his son looked out. Not while a child was dying.

"Find the castle doctor. Send him to me once he is found," he said wearily, looking into those dull, dead eyes, then allowing his gaze to drift upward, to trace the outline of Castle Glamis against the grey sky.

"Sir?"

Macduff dismounted smoothly, handing his horse's reigns to the highly confused young soldier, and then leaving both horse and soldier behind as he walked across the muddy open plane to stand before the young boy. The child flinched blindly at the approach of the far larger man, and the thane of Fife felt pity for this child, who had never known not to fear those bigger and stronger than him. Had never known what it was like to be protected. Unpinning his cloak from his shoulder, Macduff gathered the strong, smooth fabric in his arms and slowly, carefully, moved around the child until he was standing in the boy's blind spot, caused by a swollen eye from where it had been kicked. Gently, he approached, and in one swift movement picked the child up and wrapped him in the cloak. The boy struggled halfheartedly, but he was in no shape to do any serious resisting.

Macduff was only half-glad for that. Holding the skinny figure carefully he walked into the opening gates of the castle- his castle, now, for in his report to the king he would claim full responsibility for these forsaken lands. A nervous doctor met him in the main hall.

Later, after the doctor had treated the boy's injuries, Macduff would stay with the child and watch over him as he slept; and he whispered to him a solemn promise.

"Welcome home... my son."


End file.
